Alma returned to Basingstoke, and remained there until the new house was
ready for her reception. With the help of her country friends she
engaged two domestics, cook and housemaid, who were despatched to
Gunnersbury in advance; they had good 'characters', and might possibly
co-operate with their new mistress in her resolve to create an admirable
household. Into this ambition Alma had thrown herself with no less
fervour than that which carried her off to wild Wales five years ago;
but her aim was now strictly 'practical', she would have nothing more to
do with 'ideals'. She took lessons in domestic economy from the good
people at Basingstoke. Yes, she had found her way at last! Alma saw it
in the glow of a discovery, this calm, secure, and graceful middle-way.
She talked of it with an animation that surprised and pleased her little
circle down in Hampshire; those ladies had never been able to illumine
their everyday discharge of duty with such high imaginative glory. In
return for their humble lessons, Alma taught them to admire themselves,
to see in their place and functions a nobility they had never suspected.

For a day or two after her arrival at Gunnersbury, Harvey thought that
he had never seen her look so well; certainly she had never shown the
possibilities of her character to such advantage. It seemed out of the
question that any trouble could ever again come between them. Only when
the excitement of novelty had subsided did he perceive that Alma was far
from having recovered her physical strength. A walk of a mile or two
exhausted her; she came home from an hour's exercise with Hughie pale
and tremulous; and of a morning it was often to be noticed that she had
not slept well. Without talking of it, Harvey planned the holiday which
Alma had declared would be quite needless this year; he took a house in
Norfolk for September. Before the day of departure, Alma had something
to tell him, which, by suggesting natural explanation of her weakness,
made him less uneasy. Remembering the incident which had brought to a
close their life in Wales, he saw with pleasure that Alma no longer
revolted against the common lot of woman. Perhaps, indeed, the
announcement she made to him was the cause of more anxiety in his mind
than in hers.

They took their servants with them, and left the house to a caretaker.
Pauline Smith, though somewhat against Harvey's judgment, had been
called upon to resign; Alma wished to have Hughie to herself, save
during his school hours; he slept in her room, and she tended him most
conscientiously. Harvey had asked whether she would like to invite any
one, but she preferred to be alone.

This month by the northern sea improved her health, but she had little
enjoyment. After a few days, she wearied of the shore and the moorland,
and wished herself back at Gunnersbury. Nature had never made much
appeal to her; when she spoke of its beauties with admiration, she
echoed the approved phrases, little more; all her instincts drew towards
the life of a great town. Sitting upon the sand, between cliff and
breakers, she lost herself in a dream of thronged streets and brilliant
rooms; the voice of the waves became the roar of traffic, a far sweeter
music. With every year this tendency had grown stronger; she could only
marvel, now, at the illusion which enabled her to live so long, all but
contentedly, in that wilderness where Hughie was born. Rather than
return to it, she would die -- rather, a thousand times. Happily, there
was no such danger. Harvey would never ask her to leave London. All he
desired was that she should hold apart from certain currents of town
life; and this she was resolved to do, knowing how nearly they had swept
her to destruction.

'Wouldn't you like to take up your sketching again?' said Harvey one
day, when he saw that she felt dull.

'Sketching? Oh, I had forgotten all about it. It seems ages ago. I
should have to begin and learn all over again. No, no; it isn't worth
while. I shall have no time.'

She did not speak discontentedly, but Rolfe saw already the
justification of his misgivings. She had begun to feel the constant
presence of the child a restraint and a burden.

Happily, on their return home, Hughie would go to school for a couple of
hours each morning. Alma could have wished it any other school than Mary
Abbott's, but the thought was no longer so insupportable as when she
suffered under her delusion concerning the two children. Now that she
had frequently seen Minnie Wager, she wondered at the self-deception
which allowed her to detect in the child's face a distinct resemblance
to Harvey. Of course, there was nothing of the kind. She had been the
victim of a morbid jealousy -- a symptom, no doubt, of the disorder of
the nerves which was growing upon her. Yet she could not overcome her
antipathy to Mary Abbott. Harvey, she felt sure, would never have made
himself responsible for those children, but that in doing so he
benefited their teacher; and it was not without motive of conscience
that he kept the matter secret. By no effort could Alma banish this
suspicion. She resolved that it should never appear; she commanded her
face and her utterance; but it was impossible for her ever to regard Mrs
Abbott with liking, or even with respect.

In a darker corner of her mind lay hidden another shape of jealousy --
jealousy unavowed, often disguised as fear, but for the most part
betraying itself through the mask of hatred.

Times innumerable, in nights that brought no rest, and through long
hours of weary day, Alma had put her heart to the proof, and acquitted
it of any feeling save a natural compassion for the man Hugh Carnaby had
killed. She had never loved Redgrave, had never even thought of him with
that curiosity which piques the flesh; yet so inseparably was he
associated with her life at its points of utmost tension and ardour,
that she could not bear to yield to any other woman a closer intimacy, a
prior claim. At her peril she had tempted him, and up to the fatal
moment she was still holding her own in the game which had become to her
a passion. It ended -- because a rival came between. Of Sibyl's guilt
she never admitted a doubt; it was manifest in the story made public by
Hugh Carnaby, the story which he, great simple fellow, told in all good
faith, relying absolutely on his wife's assertion of innocence. Saving
her husband, who believed Sibyl innocent?

She flattered herself with the persuasion that it was right to hate
Sibyl -- a woman who had sold herself for money, whose dishonour
differed in no respect from that of the woman of the pavement. And all
the more she hated her because she feared her. What security could there
be that Redgrave's murderer (thus she thought of him) had kept the
secret which he promised to keep? That he allowed no hint of it to
escape him in public did not prove that he had been equally scrupulous
with Sibyl; for Hugh was a mere plaything in the hands of his wife, and
it seemed more than likely that he had put his stupid conscience at rest
by telling her everything. Were it so, what motive would weigh with
Sibyl to keep her silent? One, and one only, could be divined: a fear
lest Alma, through intimacy with Redgrave, might have discovered things
which put her in a position to dare the enmity of her former friend.
This, no doubt, would hold Sibyl to discretion. Yet it could not relieve
Alma from the fear of her, and of Hugh Carnaby himself -- fear which
must last a lifetime; which at any moment, perhaps long years hence,
might find its bitter fulfilment, and work her ruin. For Harvey Rolfe
was not a man of the stamp of Hugh Carnaby: he would not be hoodwinked
in the face of damning evidence, or lend easy ear to specious
explanations. The very fact that she could explain her ambiguous
behaviour was to Alma an enhancement of the dread with which she thought
of such a scene between herself and Harvey; for to be innocent, and yet
unable to force conviction of it upon his inmost mind, would cause her a
deeper anguish than to fall before him with confession of guilt. And to
convince him would be impossible, for ever impossible. Say what she
might, and however generous the response of his love, there must still
remain the doubt which attaches to a woman's self-defence when at the
same time she is a self-accuser

In the semi-delirium of her illness, whilst waiting in torment for the
assurance that Carnaby had kept her secret, she more than once prayed
for Sibyl's death. In her normal state of mind Alma prayed for nothing;
she could not hope that Sibyl's life would come to a convenient end; but
as often as she thought of her, it was with a vehemence of malignity
which fired her imagination to all manner of ruthless extremes. It
revolted her to look back upon the time when she sat at that woman's
feet, a disciple, an affectionate admirer, allowing herself to be
graciously patronised, counselled, encouraged. The repose of manner
which so impressed her, the habitual serenity of mood, the unvarying
self-confidence -- oh, these were excellent qualities when it came to
playing the high part of cold and subtle hypocrisy! She knew Sibyl, and
could follow the workings of her mind: a woman incapable of love, or of
the passion which simulates it; worshipping herself, offering luxuries
to her cold flesh as to an idol; scornful of the possibility that she
might ever come to lack what she desired; and, at the critical moment,
prompt to secure herself against such danger by the smiling, cynical
acceptance of whatsoever shame. Alma had no small gift of intuition;
proved by the facility and fervour with which she could adapt her mind
to widely different conceptions of life. This characteristic, aided by
the perspicacity which is bestowed upon every jealous woman, perchance
enabled her to read the mysterious Sibyl with some approach to
exactness. Were it so, prudence should have warned her against a
struggle for mere hatred's sake with so formidable an antagonist. But
the voice of caution had never long audience with Alma, and was not
likely, at any given moment, to prevail against a transport of her
impetuous soul.

Harvey, meanwhile, fearing her inclination to brood over the dark event,
tried to behave as though he had utterly dismissed it from his thoughts.
He kept a cheerful countenance, talked much more than usual, and seemed
full of health and hope. As usual between married people, this resolute
cheerfulness had, more often than not, an irritating effect upon Alma.
Rolfe erred once more in preferring to keep silence about difficulties
rather than face the unpleasantness of frankly discussing them. One
good, long, intimate conversation about Mrs. Carnaby, with unrestricted
exchange of views, the masculine and the feminine, with liberal
acceptance of life as it is lived, and honest contempt of leering
hypocrisies, would have done more, at this juncture, to put healthy tone
into Alma's being than any change of scene and of atmosphere, any
medicament or well-meant summons to forgetfulness. Like the majority of
good and thoughtful men, he could not weigh his female companion in the
balance he found good enough for mortals of his own sex. With a little
obtuseness to the 'finer' feelings, a little native coarseness in his
habits towards women, he would have succeeded vastly better amid the
complications of his married life.

Troubles of a grosser kind, such as heretofore they had been wonderfully
spared, began to assail them during their month in Norfolk. One morning,
about midway in the holiday, Harvey, as he came down for a bathe before
breakfast, heard loud and angry voices from the kitchen. On his return
after bathing, he found the breakfast-table very carelessly laid, with
knives unpolished, and other such neglects of seemliness. Alma,
appearing with Hughie, spoke at once of the strange noises she had
heard, and Harvey gave his account of the uproar.

'I thought something was wrong,' said Alma. 'The cook has seemed in a
bad temper for several days. I don't like either of them. I think I
shall give them both notice, and advertise at once. They say that
advertising is the best way.'

The housemaid (in her secondary function of parlour-maid) waited at
table with a scowl. The fish was ill fried, the eggs were hard, the
toast was soot-smeared. For the moment Alma made no remark; but half an
hour later, when Harvey and the child had rambled off to the sea-shore,
she summoned both domestics, and demanded an explanation of their
behaviour. Her tone was not conciliatory; she had neither the experience
nor the tact which are necessary in the mistress of a household, and it
needed only an occasion such as this to bring out the contemptuousness
with which she regarded her social inferiors. Too well-bred to indulge
in scolding or wrangling, the delight of a large class of housewives,
Alma had a quiet way of exhibiting displeasure and scorn, which told
smartly on the nerves of those she rebuked. No one could better have
illustrated the crucial difficulty of the servant-question, which lies
in the fact that women seldom can rule, and all but invariably dislike
to be ruled by, their own sex; a difficulty which increases with the
breaking-up of social distinctions.

She went out into the sunshine, and found Harvey and Hughie building a
great castle of sand. Her mood was lightsome for she felt that she had
acted with decision and in a way worthy of her dignity.

'They will both go about their business. I only hope we may get meals
for the rest of the time here.'

'What I am thinking,' she said in a lower tone, 'is that -- before long
-- we shall need -- I suppose -- someone of a rather different kind --
an ordinary nurse-girl. But you wouldn't like Hughie to be with anyone
of that sort?'

'Here's the philosophy of the matter in a nut-shell,' said Harvey
afterwards. 'Living nowadays means keeping up appearances, and you must
do it just as carefully before your own servants as before your friends.
The alternatives are, one general servant, with frank confession of
poverty, or a numerous household and everything comme il faut. There's
no middle way, with peace. I think your determination to take care of
Hughie yourself was admirable; but it won't work. These two women think
you do it because you can't afford a nurse, and at once they despise us.
It's the nature of the beasts -- it's the tone of the time. Nothing will
keep them and their like in subordination but a jingling of the purse.
One must say to them all day long, "I am your superior; I can buy you by
the dozen, if need be; I never need soil my finger with any sort of
work, and you know it." Ruth was a good creature, but I seriously doubt
whether she would have been quite so good if she hadn't seen us keeping
our horse and our gardener and our groom down yonder -- everything
handsome about us. For the sake of quietness we must exalt ourselves.'

'You're quite right about Ruth,' replied Alma, laughing. 'Several times
she has let me see how she admired my life of idleness; but it's just
that I don't want to go back to.'

'No need. Ruth was practically a housekeeper. You can manage your own
house, but you must have a servant for everything. Get a nurse, by all
means.'

'But tell me -- how does Mrs. Morton manage? Why isn't she despised by
her servants when she's always so busy?'

Harvey had to close his lips against the first answer which occurred to
him.

'For one thing,' he replied, 'there's a more natural state of things in
those little towns; something of the old spirit still lives. Then the
Mortons have the immense advantage of being an old family, settled there
for generations, known and respected by everyone. That's a kind of
superiority one can't buy, and goes for a great deal in comfortable
living. Morton's servants are the daughters of people who served his
parents. From their childhood they have thought it would be a privilege
to get into that house.'

'Why, then,' exclaimed Alma, 'we become ancestors ourselves. But one
ought to have an interesting house to live in. Nobody's ancestors ever
lived in a semi-detached villa. What I should like would be one of those
picturesque old places down in Surrey quite in the country, yet within
easy reach of town; a house with a real garden, and perhaps an orchard.
I believe you can get them very cheap sometimes. Not rent the house, but
buy it. Then we would have our portraits painted, and ----'

Harvey asked himself how long Alma would find satisfaction in such a
home; but it pleased him to hear her talking thus of the things which
were his own hopeless dream.

'That reminds me, Alma, you have never sat yet for your picture, as I
said you should.'

They were content with each other this evening, and looked forward to
pleasures they might have in common. For Harvey had learnt to nourish
only the humblest hopes, and Alma thought she had subdued herself to an
undistinguished destiny.